


My Secret Friend

by NoelleAngelFyre



Series: Tiger, Tiger [2]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Canon/Original Character pairing, Developing Relationships, F/M, Gen, mentions of vulgar language/nudity, obscure romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-14
Updated: 2015-07-14
Packaged: 2018-04-09 07:50:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4340087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She is a virgin canvas, an untouched mold of clay in need of sculpting.  And he'll take his time working with her, working on her, until she is absolutely perfect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Secret Friend

**Author's Note:**

> 2nd installment of the "Tiger, Tiger" series. This one includes some more characters, some original and others not.
> 
> Note: Title (and the overall theme of this piece) inspired by "My Secret Friend" (IAMX).

Work keeps him away for a couple months, but Victor makes a point to pass by whenever he can. He often sees Iris under the watchful eye of a grey-haired, tight-lipped woman with the other girls—them usually chatting amongst themselves and her seated on the porch with a book—or, more interestingly enough, in the company of a strange, fully uniformed police officer. He can never risk getting close enough to catch a name or glimpse the man’s badge, not when he’s technically supposed to be on business and not taking detours, but he doesn’t need to be physically close to see something else, something more important: the protective, paternal stance this man is taking towards Iris.

Victor thinks nothing of it, not for the first couple weeks. He assumes this officer is probably one of the first responders to the DeLaine murder-suicide case, and has a tender spot for the “orphaned heiress”. A bleeding heart, one who will stay around for another week or so and then will go about his way. Nothing more will come of it, and in time this man will break away from Iris’ life just as he entered it. 

As time passes, Victor notices the officer around, more and more. Sometimes the man is talking with a dark-haired, bronze-skinned woman in professional dress and the demeanor of a therapist, but most often the man is with Iris, talking with her in soft tones, sometimes bringing her little sweets. She accepts the gifts and tucks them into her pocket, and she at least knows enough about social norms to nod politely, even if she doesn’t give a verbal response. The man seems to regard her lacking response as a trauma symptom, and so he is patient with her and continues trying, day after day, sweet after sweet. 

It becomes transparently clear that no one, not the doctors at this place, not this bleeding heart cop, has a clue as to what’s going on inside Iris’ head. They think she’s a victim, so terribly distressed that she can’t even muster gratitude for a stranger’s candy. They think in time, she will come around and learn to smile and thank the kind man for his gifts. They don’t know that she doesn’t like sweets, and that’s why she only nods when the man gives her some candy and then quietly slips it to one of her fellow residents. They have no idea. None whatsoever.

Halfway through her thirteenth year, Iris is enrolled at a local private academy. Victor eagerly latches onto the opportunity at hand, for some quiet, quality time alone with her, without interruptions and without people hovering about. And so, two weeks after she begins school, he slips inside the school hall—not outside, where the tight-lipped den mother from the group home will be waiting to collect her—and waits for final bell. He intends to catch her before anyone can steal her away. It’s been too long since they’ve had a moment alone, and he’s not passing up this chance. He has work to do.

She nearly blends into the crowd, a sea of dark plaid skirts and pressed white blouses and dark stockings with polished shoes. But still, her blue eyes find him, because she’s looking up instead of down like her classmates, and her pace quickens, weaving between fellow females until she’s free of the flock and arrives at his side. He leans forward, brushes a quick kiss over her brow, and then settles a hand on her back with a gentle nudge. She complies, without question or protest, and follows his lead. _A lamb in the company of a wolf._

He takes her through the back door, unnoticed by teachers and students alike, and down secluded paths from the school to a nearby park. He isn’t one to make a habit of strolling the park in broad daylight—there’s usually too many people and too much temptation—but he’ll not take her into the back alley, dirt-smeared underground of Gotham. She can become aware of that world later, when she’s older.

As they enter the park grounds, her hand slips within his and she shifts a little closer, like it’s the most natural thing to do. Her eyes drop down to their joined hands, and he watches her gaze trace over his fingers and palm, with the intent curiosity of a scientist. He wonders if she’s remembering the way his fingers wrapped around a knife and held it to her throat, or the way he used those hands to carry her and tuck her into bed. Or, she might be looking at or for something else entirely. Maybe he’ll ask her, later.

A few minutes pass in shared silence, and then she gives a quiet little sigh and lifts her eyes to the sky. “I have never attended school before.” She murmurs. “Not with children my own age.”

“Do you like it?”

He already knows the answer before she speaks; there were no school records listed for her, prior to this enrollment, and that means for the first twelve years of her life, she’s known only social isolation without any interaction from children her own age. Not really the most tragic loss, in his opinion, because children can be obnoxious little brats. The only thing they’re really good for is bleating for mercy and choking on their last breath. 

“No,” she shakes her head, tone flat and, as usual, overtly matter-of-fact, “The other children are unkind. Especially the girls. They use words as cruel weapons. They speak ill of the way I talk, the way I look. They speak as though I should change.” 

Her eyes lift to his face. “But how can I change, Victor? This is how I was born.”

“They talk that way,” he says while crouching down, catching her by the waist, and lifting her onto the ledge of an exceptionally meaningless piece of architecture that is stationed in the middle of the park with no rhyme or reason to its existence; he then hoists himself up beside her, legs tossed over the edge, and continues, “because they’re jealous.”

Iris stares at him for a short beat; while she doesn’t frown or anything of the like, he can read the skepticism in her eyes, and she’s looking at him as though silently wondering if he is deluded or intoxicated. 

“Jealous.” She finally repeats, blinking a couple times. “They are jealous of me. That is…completely illogical. They are beautiful and young men clamor for their attentions. To be jealous of _this_ ,” she gestures at herself, “is irrational. It makes no sense.”

“They’re jealous because you have what they don’t.” he says, leaning towards her with an upward quirk to his lips; her flat-toned response is quite adorable. “Confidence.”

“Confidence.”

He smirks and leans even closer. “They look at themselves every day and spend hours trying to be perfect and pretty and flawless. But at the end of the day, they hate how they look. They hate how they talk and think and act. And they see you, how confident you are in the way you think and behave, and they can’t stand it. So they do the only thing they can: hurt you with words.”

Iris blinks again. “It still makes no sense. In this world, confidence means nothing. It is all about how you look and how appealing you are to the opposite sex. They are attractive and sexually desirable. I am not. Their jealousy is completely unfounded and, as I said, illogical.”

Victor lifts his eyebrows, hard-pressed to not smirk even more than he already is. “You really have no idea what teenage girls are like, do you, Iris?”

The blank look she gives him in return answers that question quite nicely. Shaking his head a bit, he reaches down and catches one of her hands in his. “They hurt you with words, but you can do the same.” He murmurs, brushing a thumb along her knuckles. “Anyone can make words into weapons. Even you. Especially you.”

“Maria and Marcus did this, as you say.” She says, staring down at their hands, together atop his thigh; he doesn’t miss the way she addresses the departed by their given names, no longer claiming them as her parents, and he tucks away a satisfied expression. “Crudely, in ways I would never imagine speaking.”

“That wasn’t weaponry, Iris.” He whispers, into her ear as though sharing a great secret. “That was two worthless examples of humanity tossing insults left and right, without grace, without finesse.” 

He lifts her hand to his lips, kisses her thin knuckles lightly, and adds, “I can teach you how to _really_ use words. Use them in a way those simple-minded children will never understand. I can teach you how to insult someone. I can teach you how to confuse someone. And I can teach you how to _terrify_ someone. All with words.”

Her eyes grow wide, some obscure form of intrigued, head tilting just a bit to take in his expression, probably to see if he’s lying or anything of the like. He knows she won’t see deceit or obscure manipulation. He actually doesn’t lie too often. The truth is his weapon of choice, telling people they are going to die, how they’re going to die, and all other involved details. It’s what he does.

“You can teach me this, Victor?” she asks softly, shifting a little closer to him, “You can teach me how to do this?”

The smile that curves his mouth is a little obscene, even by his standards. “There is a lot I can teach you, sweet girl.” His fingers trace a slow path up her arm to curl around her neck. “But the trick with words is how you deliver them. You have to know how to look at people, how to use your voice. You have to use everything to your advantage.”

“I do not know how to do this.”

“I know.” He has no problem imagining Marcus DeLaine, and especially his wife, were happiest when Iris played the part of a little doll, including no emotion and even less words. Small wonder her mind has been reduced to a robot, nothing more. But that’s easy enough to fix. 

“Now,” he shifts a little, props both elbows on his thighs, and fixes her with a serious expression, “tell me what your instinct is, when those girls call you _strange_ or _weird_.”

She blinks again. “Their observations are impressively astute.”

…then again, maybe not.

***

Officer Gordon continues to visit more often, and he spends quite a bit of time in Dr. Leland’s office, speaking with her for reasons Iris is not yet allowed to know. Both of them look very serious whenever they enter the office together, and their expressions do not change even once the meeting is over, until he’s taken his leave with a parting wave and smile to her and the promise he’ll be back as soon as he can. He usually gives her a little piece of candy, which she takes with a little nod and puts into her pocket. She sets it on the little table in the community room and leaves it there. One of the other girls always takes the anonymous offering.

She has come to understand that Officer Gordon is a different sort. He is a kind man, with compassionate and honest eyes; when he speaks to the doctors, he is professional and polite, but he also stands his ground when they question him and his motives, and he doesn’t back down. He strikes her as the kind of officer who is first man in and last man out. Even as little as she knows about Gotham and the inner workings of this city, she knows he is a rarity. She knows the police can be easily swayed with money and threats, as she witnessed many times in the past, but Officer Gordon does not seem to be one of the corrupt.

During one of his visits, she happens to pass by Dr. Leland’s office and the door is cracked open a bit. Eavesdropping is very rude, she knows, but curiosity is a powerful influence, and she pauses for just a moment to listen in. Inside, she hears Officer Gordon with the doctor, and another man’s voice she doesn’t recognize. They are discussing her, referred to as “Miss DeLaine,” and from what she can hear, they are discussing her future.

The other man sounds like a very stiff-lipped individual, and he speaks towards Officer Gordon with a certain arrogance that she doesn’t like; it reminds her of Marcus. He makes comments about how there are “far better and more suitable families” to take her in than a “common street cop”. He asks Officer Gordon just why he thinks he would be an appropriate match, why he should be entrusted with a young girl’s wellbeing when he is unmarried, living with a woman not his wife, and has a job which puts his life in danger every day.

Officer Gordon holds his ground, as he always does, and tells the other man to ask these other prospective families if they know what Iris’ favorite color is, and why. The man first asks why, then promptly says that is a ridiculous question and he won’t belittle himself or the other families by asking it. Dr. Leland tells him to ask, because any family who intends to take her in should know these things.

Five days later, she happens to hear Dr. Leland talking with Officer Gordon on the front porch, enjoying the sun and pleasant change in temperature, and she asks him how he thought to ask about favorite colors as a test question. He shrugs, smiles, and he thought it ought to be something a potential parent ought to know as well.

Iris finds his approach intriguing, but a rather moot point. Officer Gordon does not know her favorite color, any more than, as she later learns, any of the other families know the answer. No one knows her favorite color, or movie, or book, because she does not have one. A favorite implies “now and forever,” and it is impossible to love something—regardless of what it is—forever. People change. Opinions change. Public perception changes. Styles and fads come and go, and with them, what people deem a favorite changes. It is far easier to save oneself the trouble of dubbing multiple things as “favorite” and trying to keep track.

***

The warm weather continues, prompting a change from the winter uniforms to the spring—capped sleeves for the white blouses and no mandated stockings. Some of the other girls also take this as an opportunity to reduce the hem of their skirts by about three inches. Iris elects to keep the stockings, and shirts with three-quarter sleeves, and her skirt hem stays precisely where it is without any alterations. The other girls take notice. A group of the seniors begin referring to her as a “prude”.

One day, at final bell, finds Iris perched on a small ledge outside the school, reading the weekly assignment with attention divided between words she’s already read three weeks earlier and the twittering gossip transpiring nearby by a group of five girls—two seniors, one junior, and two freshman; the latter pair have a look of utmost attention on their faces, devoting all senses to every word falling from the glossed lips of the elder girls—who are examining the newest addition to teaching staff at the academy. The seniors are carefully examining his looks and making commentary while the younger ones listen with rapt attention. They deem him attractive enough to make a pass or two, perhaps entice with a flash of bare skin and a coy smile with warm gazes offered through their eyelashes. They seek a passing grade in his class, and consider him attractive enough to maybe even enjoy the romp.

By the standards of the human male, Iris supposes the teacher is attractive. He has a strong build, and dark hair, and good teeth. His speech is articulate enough, even though he lacks what she would consider impressive intellect, and she supposes he could indeed make a suitable sexual partner. She wonders how long it will take before one of the girls make their move, and how long it will be into the attempted seduction before he confesses his attraction is less to their soft skin and voluptuous curves and more to the firm muscles and solid masculinity of the science teacher.

***

“Try that one.”

“No.”

“Just try it.”

“No. I have no desire to even attempt mimicking such a ridiculous expression.” Iris shakes her head; stubbornness, apparently, comes quite naturally. “She is a grown woman, and she is displaying materialistic wealth and unnecessary exaggerations of her physique in hopes of catching that man’s attention. It is juvenile behavior, at best.”

Victor quietly sighs, shakes his head, and adjusts his position for the sake of his limbs, which are protesting at being kept in one place for too long. The park is relatively vacant today—a couple joggers, a new mother with her baby in a stroller, some high school students laughing too loud as they passed (his fingers had itched for the trigger on his gun, ears creating the sound of their absurd laughter cut short with a bullet to the head, each of them, _Boom, Boom, Boom_ )—and consequently the imitation subjects are limited. He’s had some success finding standard emotions for her to imitate, such as happy and highly focused. Not that Iris needs help with the latter; when he met her here today, she was hip-deep in _The Collected Works of Edgar Allen Poe_ and it had taken a solid thirty minutes before she even realized he was there. 

But those are mediocre, at best, and he was hoping for something a little more challenging. Iris does, after all, love a challenge, and so does he. While his original plan was only to teach her the art of war via words, the lessons have since taken a few twists and turns. Words, as he’d said, are only effective when used in junction with proper tone and facial expression, and it hadn’t taken long before his original suspicions were confirmed, that Iris has no real concept about how to utilize her facial muscles to display emotion, progress had been needed in a different area.

Iris is a splendid student, make no mistake, with her keen mind learning fast and cataloging each lesson to exact precision. But she is also a very nit-picky and stubborn student. Consequently, lessons often involve a few disagreements and some negotiation—mostly on his part, but if anyone asks, it’s a mutual affair—when she doesn’t see merit in the selected option, or just doesn’t feel like following through.

“Iris, my sweet girl,” he says, tapping her forehead with a finger, “it is a woman’s prerogative, that she know how to properly seduce a man.” This particular example isn’t quite his fancy, but his options are limited and he can’t afford to be selective.

Apparently, Iris disagrees. “If a woman is to properly seduce a man, it ought to be with her intellect, her worldliness, the sharpness of her mind and the nature of her spirit. Not…” her eyebrows lift even higher as the woman drops her purse and makes a show about bending down to retrieve it, the generous curves of her chest nearly spilling over the neckline, “… _that_.”

Alright, time for a different tactic. Her brutal honesty is so very refreshing and he could happily continue this for hours and hours and hours, but that’s not how things work in the real world. “Come here.” he says, wrapping an arm loosely around her shoulders and using fingers to nudge her closer. She complies, scooting over until she’s almost flush against him; he settles his temple to hers and rests the hand on her shoulder.

“We look at her,” he says, very quietly, “and we see the same thing, you and I. Right now, how would you describe my response to her?”

She takes a moment to think. “Neutral. Perhaps a little unimpressed, but otherwise neutral.”

“Exactly.” He nods. “Because that’s what I want you to think. You see me as neutral and unimpressed, and if she were to look up here right now, she’d see the same thing and wouldn’t be concerned one bit, because I’m not a threat. Because she sees exactly what I want her to see, and she has no idea that I’m imagining how her pretty face will look with five cuts across one cheek,” he traces a single finger along Iris’ left cheek, “five across the other,” he repeats the motion on the other side, “and one nice long one across her throat.” 

He lingers for a fleeting second over Iris’ pulse, relearning the beat, pauses for a moment, and then adds, “And she definitely has no idea that I’ve been figuring out how long it’ll take her to bleed out, depending on where I cut.”

Iris hasn’t moved the entire time, but once he stops talking, she turns her head a little to look at him. “Eleven.” She murmurs. “Eleven cuts, for the eleven minutes we have had to watch her attempt a very tawdry and lewd seduction.”

“Exactly.” His lips thin into a brief smirk. “Alright, if you don’t want to try _hers_ , try out _his_.”

This time, she appears more cooperative; her head tilts a little, the way she does when concentrating and contemplating, and stays quiet for about two minutes while examining the man’s expression. Then, she closes her eyes, draws in and releases a careful breath, and turns her face back to him. Her eyebrows lift and knit close together, she draws her lips in and out several times, and her eyes narrow a little in perfect accompaniment to the shape of her eyebrows.

His mouth stretches into a pleased grin with a nod. “Very good.”

Her facial muscles return to normal, and she moves a quick glance from him to the other man and back to him. “And what do you call that one, Victor?”

His grin only broadens. “Awkward.”

“Awkward.” She repeats, quite seriously; her contemplative expression is back, and she nods to herself. “And this is an appropriate response for situations other than indecent displays of feminine charm, yes?”

“Oh, yes.” He nods, tucking her even closer and resting his chin atop her head with an affectionate pat to her shoulder. “Quite a few, actually.”

She spends time that night in front of the closet mirror, practicing and practicing her new expressions—happy, amused, intrigued, annoyed, and awkward—until she’s satisfied with each presentation. Applicable scenarios are a little more challenging to imagine; today only offered minor chances to practice, and without that, all she has left is trial and error. And that is unacceptable. Trial and error leads to social embarrassment and worse. Her only hope is to just practice and use her imagination, and settle for nothing less than perfection. She will _not_ give those girls at school another reason to mock her.

In the morning, she skims over the paper before leaving for the day. She notices a little segment under the Crime Blotter section about a woman found dead in the theater district. The paper doesn’t give specifics about how she died, only that the police are ruling it a homicide. She folds up the paper and puts it in the recycling bin with a little sigh.

Five across one cheek, five across the other, and five across the throat: fifteen minutes total.

***

“How is it,” Iris asks, without any sort of proper greeting as she climbs the steps and tosses herself onto the ledge, “that obscene gyrations of the lower body and excessive groping, without any consideration for personal space or public decency, constitute an activity appropriate for school functions?”

“Have a school dance coming up, do we?” Victor says, without looking up from the box cutter in hand and the small alcohol pad he’s using on the blade. There are better cleaning methods, yes, but the tools necessary for such procedures are back at his place and if he doesn’t get this grease stain off the blade it will drive him crazy. It serves him right, he supposes, for being so hasty with this last one, but the idiot wouldn’t be polite, stop working on his car, and look at him. The grease stains on his clothes are another matter, but he’s wearing black and no one can see them anyway.

She huffs out some minor annoyance; she’s picking up on that display quite nicely, and he suspects it’s probably more natural, similar to her stubbornness, propensity towards overly-accurate—and thus, not often flattering—perceptions of those around her, and the kind of explicit honesty that could make a rock burst into tears over its faults and require therapy for depression.

“The principal contacted Dr. Leland.” She tucks her legs to the side and adjusts her skirt. “Apparently they both agreed that participating in school events would nurture my social experience and encourage my self-esteem, and so now I am to attend the dance. The principal was also kind enough to find five suitable young men to escort me.”

_That_ makes him pause, mid-motion, and slowly pocket the knife with a careful breath. Five suitable young men to escort her. Five of them, all probably no older than seventeen, eighteen at most, and there is only one thing boys at that age think about.

“Do you want to go to the dance, Iris?” he finally asks, ensuring his voice doesn’t betray anything; especially not the way his fingers are twitching a little, already wanting his knife again.

“Not for purposes of dancing.” She answers, after another pause. “But this will be a large gathering of young men and women, engaging in various interactions with one another. It could prove a veritable breeding ground, rich with opportunities to watch and observe and learn. For better or for worse.”

“Even if it means you’ll be privy to _all kinds_ of interactions, for at least four hours?”

Her face grimaces a little at the thought, but she releases another sigh and nods. “All creatures are best observed in their natural habitat, even if their natural behavior leaves something to be desired.”

He doesn’t try and talk her out of it; if her mind is made up, she’ll go whether he wants her to or not. And he doesn’t. He is working so very hard on her, looking to perfect every last detail in her sculpt, and spending an evening in the company of lesser beings could very well upset, even ruin all his hard work. But he remains silent, because he is also curious to see just how well his efforts are paying off, and the best way to find the answer is to let her leave his sight, go off on her own, and then return to his side. Then he’ll be able to determine what damage has been done. Perhaps—and isn’t this a wondrous thought?—there will be none.

He stops by the group home the following night and she sneaks him up to her room. A little spell during Iris’ first week here ensured she would have a room to herself—apparently, some girls are a little more sensitive than others, and Iris’ open honesty didn’t sit well with not one, not two, but four almost-roommates—so he has no concerns about making himself comfortable and waiting while she gets ready for the big night.

He has reservations about what sort of attire this place offered up; from what he saw, two hours ago, it’s an insulting little scrap of material, probably handed down from another girl. Even just hanging on the closet door, he could tell from first glance it wouldn’t fit her. At all. She’d be better off wearing a garbage bag.

But Iris seems unconcerned; she’s perched on the edge of her bed, dress across her lap and a sewing needle moving with rapid skill across the fabric. It’s like watching her play the piano: long and thin fingers working, eyes following each movement with a sharp and calculating gaze, teeth occasionally nipping her lower lip when she pauses, considers, and then continues. He’s growing rather fond of watching her mind at work. Very, very fond, in fact.

After three hours, she pauses, stretches out limbs and neck muscles which have to be cramped after not moving in all that time, and collects the dress into the bathroom. She takes far less time to get ready than she did to fix that mess of cheap fabric; it’s only another forty minutes before the door opens and she steps out.

Her mass of black hair is drawn back and fastened with a clip; she’s not wearing makeup, save for a little tinge of gloss on her lips. The dress, amusingly enough, is black, and he has to wonder what unspoken comment these people were trying to make, giving her a dress one might wear to a funeral instead of a dance. But black is a good color for her, and the alterations she’s made fit the fabric well to her body. He’s quite pleased to see she is covering quite a bit of skin—far more than any of the other girls will be—because it means her modesty is still intact, and rightfully so. And if she returns home with so much as a hem out of place, there will be at least one young man in Gotham missing his hands by tomorrow morning.

She stops and looks at herself in the mirror, smoothing out the bodice and skirt with a critical eye. After a moment, he appears in the reflection, resting both hands on her bare shoulders, just above the fabric line, and stroking the skin slowly. Warm, soft, smooth. He watches the beat of her pulse beneath the skin, counting each one and nodding to himself. She’s calm, composed, relaxed. And serious. _Too serious._

“Smile, sweet girl.” He murmurs, kissing her temple. “Smile.”

He watches, in the mirror, as her brow furrows, just a little bit, and her lips slowly begin to twitch. At first, it look more like a grimace, and her expression looks almost pained; then, the smooth curve of her lips draws upward, her facial muscles relax, and her brow settles. She even lets her lips part enough to showcase white teeth, in a perfect, elegant display of feminine delight.

“That’s my girl.” He kisses her temple again with eyes drinking in that beautiful smile. Her teeth are white and straight and perfect, and her canines nice and sharp. She’ll scare half those twittering harpies into an early grave with that smile. “Have fun tonight.”

***

Iris returns about three hours later. He’s been reclining on her bed, passing the time by cleaning his knife again, sharpening it, and cleaning it yet again, and watching passerby out her window. None of them prove a truly tempting feat, more like a post-dinner morsel or something to relieve boredom. The three girls look like mice, ones that would scamper and run screaming in perfect replication of a poorly-conceived horror film; their male companions are all brawn and no brains and wouldn’t even be worth the effort to cut them up, let alone the bullet from his gun. It’s a little disappointing, but perhaps tomorrow will offer better prospects.

When Iris slips back in the door, she’s composed and shows no traces of being manhandled. Her skirt barely has any wrinkles, and her hair is untouched. She sees him on the bed, and her lips twitch up. It’s not the rehearsed expression from before, but more natural, and he likes the look on her.

After she slips out of the dress and dresses for bed—those hand-me-downs have got to go; she looks like a cheap replication of Cinderella—he follows impulse and gestures for her to sit down on the bed. She looks curious, but says nothing; after she’s complied and settled atop the bedcovers, he takes the opportunity to smooth out and braid her hair. It’s similar to forming a makeshift noose, only her strands are silky smooth and don’t chaff the fingers. As he pulls more hair back and wraps it in place, his eyes lazily drift to the back of her neck. She has a very swan-like throat, long and slender, and her skin reminds him of porcelain: white, smooth, cold to the eyes but warm to the touch.

His gaze travels a little further, finding the tick tock of her pulse, a soft little rhythm beneath the thin layer of white flesh. _One, two, three_ …he realizes, belatedly, his tongue is flicking against the roof of his mouth in time with the beat.

“Do you know how to dance, Victor?”

Her voice is enough to nudge the distraction away; he nods, finishing the braid and letting it slide slowly, heavily, from his fingers to drape down her spine. “My parents taught me.”

Iris is quiet for a minute, then speaks again, softer this time, “Mother forbid me from learning. She said dancing was too passionate.” Another pause, and then she sighs. “She never wanted grandchildren.”

She wraps both arms around her legs, tucking them close, and then leans back against his chest, resting her head at his shoulder with a quiet sound. “But I would like to learn.” She adds. “I would like to learn how to dance. The real way.”

An image of her—not as she is now, but years from now, with long and slender limbs and delicate curves and a woman’s body to match a woman’s eyes—in black silk and sleek heels, diamonds at her throat and hanging from both ears, caught willingly in his arms as he twirls her around a room with candles and the sweet smell of rose petals lingering in the air, flashes across his inner eye. It unnerves him, startles him. He’s unprepared for such a response, for such a violent rush of sensation. He’s unprepared for the absence of blood, or a shuddering last breath, in the vision. She is intact, whole and complete, and very much alive.

In the time it takes for her to draw breath, his composure recovers. He rests his cheek to her temple, slides his hands up both arms and cups her thin shoulders with possessive delicacy. “Then you should learn.”

“If _you_ will teach me.” She answers. “Then I will.”

There’s probably some underlying sense of indecency in that statement—she’s fourteen, and he’s…not—but the same image flashes before his eyes, and this time it doesn’t unnerve him quite as much. The thought of her in his arms, blue eyes and pale skin and dark hair, with a woman’s face, reminds him of younger days, when he would try to catch fire with his fingertips, the flame atop a candle wick dancing just out of reach, but then drawing close enough to burn, and then away again. A child’s game, certainly not one played with a great deal of common sense, could just as easily become a new game as a grown man. In time, his little flame will grow; she will grow taller, and she will become more vibrant, and then, one day, some day, he will catch her. And then the dance can really begin.

***

“They are advancing me to senior level, tomorrow, with some college courses.” Iris says, leaning back on her arms, palms flat to the ledge. “They say I have become bored.”

She’s barely made it through her freshman year, barely been able to adjust and find her place in the peer pool; now, two hours before final bell, she’s been pulled into the counselor’s office and informed that she’ll be taken on a different academic path. She is given no say in the matter, only told with tender smiles and conceiting sympathy that this is in her best interests.

“Are they wrong?”

She casts a look down to her left, to the dark-clothed man reclining across the stone steps with casual elegance. Her mouth quirks up, just a little, thinking he looks very much like a panther right now. She wonders if he ever wears anything other than black, then shrugs the thought away. It doesn’t matter. Besides, she thinks he looks good in black and the darker colors. Imagining him in brighter shades makes her blink and shudder the thought away, too much for her to think it’s an experiment that ought to be tried.

“Not necessarily.” She murmurs, after a thoughtful pause; her teachers have already made several comments throughout the year about her refusal to keep the same pace as the rest, deeming her a show-off and scoffing at her protests that she is not trying to outshine anyone, but just learns faster and differently than the rest. “But still…I would have liked to be in one place a little while longer. I feel I am being unearthed before I had chances to properly root.”

“You can’t root when the soil isn’t good.” Victor lifts his eyebrow at her. “Simple gardening rule, Iris.”

“Amusing,” she rolls her eyes lightly, shifting onto her feet, walking the ledge like it’s a gymnast’s balance beam until she reaches the stairs and begins a slow, lazy descent, “but I am serious, Victor. They way they talk, I will be graduating and in college by the time I have reached my fifteenth year. I will be the youngest on the campus.”

He shrugs his shoulders. “And very likely far smarter than all of them.” He remarks, stretching his arms slowly. “Or are you not the same Iris DeLaine who completes the first week reading assignment in one day, and the year’s reading assignments in two weeks?”

“Unlike some people in this city,” she retorts, resting for a moment five steps above his current position, “I do not wave my achievements about like a flag of narcissism. This includes my intellect and academic standing, thank you very much.”

“Your modesty is quite adorable.” He smirks; she descends the necessary steps and, after a moment’s consideration, decides to stretch out along the steps as well. “I do believe I was wrong, saying the girls were jealous because you were confident. They’re jealous because you have everything they don’t—”

“Again, a debatable point.” She mutters.

“—and yet,” he continues, undeterred by her interruption, “you have the modest humility of a nun.”

She stares up at the blue sky for a long moment, hands folded lightly across her lower stomach. “When one exists as _nothing_ ,” she murmurs thoughtfully, “one has little reason to believe she is _something_. Let alone something worthy of envy.”

From her peripheral, she sees him shift onto one side, propping himself up and fixing her with a blue-eyed stare. She turns her head to meet his gaze; in daylight, his eyes look darker, a deeper shade of blue than they do at night. Strange, that those eyes would seem brighter in shadows, not in light.

“And that, sweet girl,” he says, tapping beneath her jaw with a finger, “is your problem. You put yourself beneath them when you’re so far above each and every one.”

Her eyebrows lift, enough to convey a hint of skepticism. “Pedestals are dangerous, my tiger.” She says quietly, “When you fall, it is a long way down. And a very sudden stop. And a very messy ending.”

Victor leans down, closer until his brow brushes hers. His skin is very, very smooth, lacking the tickle of eyebrows or other facial hair. It’s different, but she thinks she likes it. She think she likes it quite a bit, actually.

“So don’t fall.” He says, as though it is the most obvious solution to her problem. Her lips twitch up, not in a smile, but in a softer replication of the smirk he wears so often and so well; she shifts on her side to match him, leaning up just enough that the contact between his skin and hers is no longer an idle brush.

“Simple as that, is it?”

His smirk only grows, and he brushes his nose against hers. She’s not quite sure if it’s an affectionate gesture, or if it’s silently condescending. Perhaps it is both. “Simple as that.”

***

After weeks of him negotiating with the Department of Human Services and the head of the group home, Iris is allowed to go with Officer Gordon on a weekend pass. He tells her she can call him “Jim,” but she likes his full name, and says she will call him “James”. Few people call him “James,” but he doesn’t seem to dislike it when she says it. So she does it.

She spends the two nights in a downtown loft he sometimes shares with Miss Barbara Kean. She recognizes the family name; her father had attempted to negotiate some business deals with the Keans, but was rejected. Her mother often frequented the gallery, for the sake of public appearances and not because she had any interest in art. Iris had never really understood the point of going to an art gallery if you were not going to look at the art. There had been much about her mother she’d never understood.

She recognizes other things about Barbara. She recognizes a lingering odor of drugs, the kind one smokes and clings to the hair and skin and clothes, and the pupil dilation caused by the drugs one swallows under the guise of medicinal necessity. She recognizes the way Barbara almost always has a glass in her hand, and it’s rarely filled with water. She recognizes, beneath the bright smile and within pretty blue eyes, a detached sense of self and reluctant regard for upholding her family’s name. She recognizes the face of a woman who has grown up with wealth and everything a girl could want, except her parents’ love.

Iris says nothing to James, because if he hasn’t already noticed, she isn’t sure he really wants to know. Ignorance is bliss. But she knows. Barbara knows she knows. The soul recognizes a kindred spirit when it sees one. Barbara looks at her sometimes, while James is distracted or they happen to be alone in the room. Her eyes speak with voices of their own, and they dare Iris to say something, to say anything at all, to reveal her secrets and expose what lies beneath the mask of vibrant beauty and feminine charm. 

She returns each look with a steady gaze and silence. Tonight will not be the night for her to expose the truth and strip away Barbara’s carefully constructed façade. And, she thinks, neither will the next night, or the night after that. Perhaps it will come someday soon, or it may be that Barbara’s demons break free of their cage, of their own accord, and they will peek out and expose themselves, and it will ultimately be her own doing and her own fault.

But until then, Iris returns her look, and sometimes she even gives Barbara a smile in return. A comforting gesture, a pretty little curve of the lips, and the other woman’s gaze relaxes and she looks at ease once again. And she and James stand close together and talk about things. They talk about the gallery, about his work; Barbara tells him he looks good in his uniform, and Iris hears the lie beneath honeyed tones, because he really doesn’t look good in that uniform. Barbara turns her head, and asks Iris to agree with her, that James looks very good in his uniform, and she gives her pretty smile and nods, but she doesn’t speak aloud. It is easy for the body to lie, with its own language; it is another matter for the tongue to lie. Victor does it very well, and perhaps one day she will be able to do the same. But not today.

***

“Victor,” she says quietly, “am I ugly?”

He’s stretched out across her bed, gazing out the bedroom window at those who toddle on by and remain completely unaware of who is watching and what thoughts circulate through his mind at any given moment. Today has been a little more promising: there’s a fellow in a three-piece suit walking by, talking loudly on his phone, apparently unconcerned with who hears him, and he is a very arrogant man. He speaks about his employer, about how hard he works and how little compensation he receives for it, and how he has been passed over again for a promotion. He’s lamenting the inability to make additional purchases for his home, and that he’ll never get the very expensive car he’s been wanting and wanting for years and years. Arrogance, greed, and Victor is forming some enticing images of that suits in carefully carved ribbons, along a back alley floor, and a blade in his hand, taking his time with the skin beneath, quietly murmuring over wails and choked sobs—this one looks like he’d be a screamer—that one should never be ungrateful for the absence of materials and wealth, because life is short and one never knows when it will end.

And then the question cuts into his fantasy; he blinks, twice, and turns his head to the left. Iris is standing in front of her closet mirror, a look of intense concentration across her face, creating wrinkles and creases. She’s fully clothed, but he can tell, from the way she’s examining her reflection, that she’s seeing past the clothes.

“Why would you ask that?” he replies, shifting his position and dropping one leg over the mattress while propping his elbow on the other.

She shrugs, running her hands slowly down her sides, as though measuring herself, and pausing at her hips. No verbal response follows. Finally, after five minutes, he hoists himself upright with a low sigh, crosses the distance, and stands behind her. “Answer me, Iris.”

Her eyes meet his in the mirror, after a moment, and he can see a little ripple of apprehension before she blinks it away. “Some of the girls were talking in the restroom today. They did not know I was there.”

He already has a thought as to the answer, but he asks the question anyway. “What did they say?” and then, after a thoughtful moment, he adds, “Exact words.”

Iris blinks again, and the ripple returns, and her throat tightens a little more around her swallow. “They called me a freak.” She whispers. “That I was too thin, too pale. That I creep them out, with the way I speak, and the way I look at them.”

Silence follows, but he knows that can’t be the end of it; she’s heard those insults before, and they certainly don’t warrant a tightening in her throat and the look in her eyes. “What else did they say, Iris?” he says, dropping his tone a little as he leans close to her ear. “And don’t lie to me.”

She looks reluctant, uneasy; it’s a strange combination of emotion that she usually doesn’t give, and he curls both hands around her upper arms, tucking her close to his chest. The anxiety fades, melting away, and she relaxes against him. “They said, if I was ever fortunate to have a man want me,” she continues, holding his gaze in the mirror, “he would have to…” she pauses, struggles for a moment, and then, “he would have to fuck me from behind, or I would snap like a toothpick.”

Her pause makes sense now; for all her blunt honesty and untamed tongue, Iris has no tolerance for vulgar language. She hates hearing it around her, and this is the first time he’s ever heard any word, let alone _that word_ pass her lips. And, he knows, were it not for his direction of “exact words,” she would have found another way to phrase it. It’s something they have in common, actually; he’s always regarded cursing and foul language as a sign of weak minds and unintelligence, lacking the vocabulary to find a different way of expressing one’s self.

He kisses her temple, a silent apology for making her say the word out loud, and she receives it with a little sigh and gentle tilt of her head to his lips. He doesn’t say anything else, and neither does she. But, after a thoughtful pause, her hands ascend to his. In the mirror, they both watch as her fingers slowly curl around and fit to his. She’s grown into her hands, long and slender fingers, graceful shapes and delicate forms. For a minute or two, impulse wars with better judgment in the silence of his thoughts, but the former finally wins out, and he slowly lifts one hand to his lips, kissing the knuckles first, like a gentleman receiving his lady, and then further down to her wrist. Her veins are an intricate, elegant web of thin blue lines, and he traces them with ghosting brushes. Every so often, he chances a look at her face in the mirror. He won’t swear to it, but when she happens to meet his eyes, there’s something glimmering in pale depths that speaks to him. Something familiar. Very…very familiar…but then she blinks, and it’s gone.

Around six in the evening, she gets the summons for dinner, and when she returns, he’ll be gone. Sometimes he stays and waits for her, but not tonight. Tonight, he has work to do.

The newspapers have his work across the front pages this time; according to the statement made by his employer, the man was a “most valued employee” and “will be dearly missed by our little family”. The article doesn’t make any mention of where he was found, or how he died, or any of the other little sordid details that would really make it a far more interesting read. Sometimes the papers go into full detail, but they can be bought, and a successful Gotham company probably doesn’t want any association with one of their employees being found naked outside a whorehouse, with mutilation in areas that demand discretion.

Victor folds up the paper and places it neatly inside the fireplace. It burns faster than the suit did.

***

Iris’ predictions are spot-on: two months after her fifteenth birthday, the announcement goes out that she’ll be graduating in the spring, highest honors, top of her class, and various other accomplishments listed in the school’s quarterly report. A few copies were left outside the office when he strolled in an hour ago, and he’s passed the time leaning against a wall and reading with vaguely detached interest. The report is quite gushing in its adorations, and he’s sure Iris would be both horrified and embarrassed. Her modesty really is just precious sometimes.

“Put that away,” her voice breaks the silence; she’s standing a short distance away, and, sure enough, is scowling at the report in his hands as though it personally offended her, “It is full of absurd flattery and wasted compliments.”

“It’s a school-wide declaration of you as the star pupil, Iris.” He smirks, nevertheless crumpling it up and tossing the remnants aside in the waste bin. “One would think you could be just a little bit appreciative.”

Her eyes narrow at him; she wears the look of displeasure quite well, actually. Unlike most people who furrow their brow and let the corners of their mouths drop and make a big show about it, she simply lets her eyes do the talking for her, along with the thin line of her mouth for extra emphasis. “The same people who wrote those things,” she says coolly, “are the same who not two years ago scolded and berated me in public for knowing the answer when I was not supposed to know. I am hardly appreciative.”

If her modesty is precious and adorable, her aggravation is the single-most endearing thing he’s ever seen in his life. She doesn’t make an ordeal about showing her irritation, but she doesn’t need to; her body language is a voice all on its own, and her eyes communicate more than words ever do. He’s done good work with her.

“A few more months, sweet girl,” he says casually, “and you’ll be done with this.”

“You think it will be better at the university?”

“No.” he smirks down at her. “I’m just holding out the optimistic hope that you’ll have realized by then that none of them matter. Praise or insults or anything in between.”

Iris blinks, then tilts her head up at him; she’s getting taller, and she doesn’t have to look up as high anymore. “Optimistic hope.” She repeats. “Are you not the one often robbing people of both optimism and hope, Victor?”

He shrugs, smirk still in place. “Maybe I’m collecting and storing it all up, just for you. Lest I lose you to the unfortunate wallows of pessimism.”

She rolls her eyes a little, makes a dry comment about how that would be a pleasant change of pace, and then says she needs return to the home alone today; Mrs. Brown, ever so tragically, has come down with a tragic case of the flu. Further, she says—though with an audible tinge of reluctance—that she cannot leave with him today. There is to be a meeting of the minds, so to speak, regarding her future placement before she ages out of the system. She tells him someone has made the final cut, and it is likely she’ll be placed in their care. She doesn’t give names, wisely, and though he could ask, he chooses not to. It won’t be long before she’s graduated and off to the university, where there will be no legal guardians and she’ll still be safely within his grasp. Nothing will change, so the name of her new parental figure is, essentially, inconsequential.

He instead opts to walk her home. It would probably save time and energy to hail a taxi, but Iris has a slight aversion to public transportation, which is fine by him. He’d just as soon not have to remove a driver’s eyes for ogling her in a school girl’s uniform. Not that it would bother _him_ , but Iris’ absolute abhorrence for excessive gore became abundantly clear after this past birthday: he’d stopped by and found her in the bathroom, worshipping the porcelain god, and later learned—when he was tucking her into bed with a trash bin close by and a cool washcloth across her forehead—the group home had celebrated Halloween with a movie marathon, most of which were the cheaper, bloodier-is-better films.

“Victor,” she says, as they round the corner and the group home looms within sight, turning slowly and facing him with a strangely serious expression, “if I asked something of you, would you do it?”

This is an intriguing little twist; he supposes he never considered it before, but she’s never actually asked anything of him before. She’s asked questions, yes, but nothing that resembles a favor or the like. And he is very, very curious what favor she might ask of him.

His fingers graze her cheek lightly, affectionately, while his eyes hold hers. “You can ask.”

***

The DeLaine house is still vacant, still for sale; apparently no one wants to purchase property where a murder-suicide occurred. The white marble and stone is still clean and the green grass is still manicured, just in case someone may want it, one of these days—and, more importantly, it’s still a part of this neighborhood and people here take appearances very seriously. But it’s only the exterior that matters; few of the neighbors offer a passing glance to it, or anyone who happens to be passing by the property. Their ignorance works well in his favor, as he walks up the polished drive, picks the locks, and slips through the handsome set of doors. 

_“It is back at the family home. In my old room. Up the stairs to the third floor, the last door on the left.”_

There are elements of this place that remind him of his childhood home. The rich and ornate decorations, the plush carpet lining a winding staircase, prized possessions mounted carefully within glass cabinets, tiled floors and expensive rugs; the main difference, of course, is that his childhood home was a place of warm colors and halls filled with laughter and the house was never without declarations of love between mother and father, from parents to child. His childhood was a place of wealth and prosperity, just as Iris’, but his was also filled with love and happiness and warmth. The cold white interior of this place says just as much: sterile, barren, empty.

He follows the given instructions, up the stairs to the third floor, down a long hallway to the last door on the left, and opens to the door. And then he stops, looks down to confirm what a passing first glance suggested, and his jaw locks. There’s no door handle on the other side. Her parents could open the door from the outside, put her in here, and the only escape route she’d ever have had was through her window. As fragile and malnourished as she’d been, making that kind of jump would have broken every bone in her body. This room, white walls and white carpet and white bedding, was her prison.

_“In my closet, at the back on the floor, there is a little latch. Pull it to the left, then back to the right, hard.”_

The closet is still stocked full of white dresses, lace and silk and cotton, and he has a sudden, irrational but burning urge to rip every last one of them apart. He swallows it back, settles for pushing them aside more aggressively than necessary, and his eyes quickly find the small latch peeking out from the white carpet. He crouches down, takes hold, pulls left, yanks back right, and there is a faint _pop!_ He tugs upward, and a small section of the floor lifts in turn.

_“There should be a box inside. A little bigger than a shoebox. If it is still there—if it has not been found—take it and bring it back to me. Please, my tiger…it contains something very precious to me.”_

The box is there, untouched, and a little dusty. He carefully withdraws it, using a sleeve to wipe away the lingering dust, and tests the weight between his palms. Whatever is inside is a little heavier than shoes, but doesn’t make any noise when the box is moved. He could shake it, try to see if that prompts any telling noise, but this isn’t Christmas and he’s not the little boy listening for a new train set anymore.

He cleans the box a little more, then tucks it securely beneath one arm, closes the opening and the closet door, and leaves. The less time he spends in this place the better; he’s still recovering from overexposure to white he endured the first time they met.

He waits until dinner is over, around seven, and then slinks through the front door, up the second floor, and down the hall. He knocks twice on her door, and waits barely three seconds more before the lock turns and the door opens. Her eyes seek him out immediately, then drop to the box in his hold. The relief is quite apparent, more so than any other emotion she’s ever given him, and she quickly ushers him inside.

As she takes the box, holding it with reverence, he thinks he might actually have to ask to see just what is was that she needed so badly, that he had to go across the city and employ breaking-and-entering techniques just to find, at her imploring request. But then, she slowly pries the lid away, reaches inside, and withdraws the contents.

A doll. A porcelain doll, to be exact, its every detail sculpted to perfection and clearly made to match her likeness. A head of thick raven curls, large blue eyes with dark eyelashes, soft pink lips, and smooth pale skin; the dress is silk, midnight blue with black velvet accents, the kind made for a fine lady of society. It’s a well-crafted, finely-made item, and even though he thinks she’s a little old for dolls, he can’t deny this is an impressive exception.

But, he quickly notices, there is one flaw amongst otherwise perfection: a small radiating fracture in the center of the doll’s chest, exposed by the sweeping neckline. He asks Iris about it, curiosity getting the better of him. For a few minutes, she says nothing, runs soft touches over the silk folds of the gown, the dark curls of hair, the smooth shapes of the face, and traces her fingertip over the damage. 

“Grandfather made this for me.” She finally explains, in barely a whisper. “It was the last gift he gave me, before he died. Mother hated it. She hated me of course, but she truly, deeply, utterly hated Grandfather, and Grandmother, and resented the care and devotion and love they showed me. So, that night, after Grandfather and Grandmother had left, she tried to throw it across the room. But I caught it.”

She pauses again, then continues, in the same tone, “I caught it too hard, and it broke.” Her fingertip traces the blemish again, slower this time, and then sighs quietly. “I felt it, against my heart, when I broke her heart.” She touches the crack once again, and then she shrugs. “Perhaps now, it is more accurate. At least now we match.”

He settles down on the bed, wraps one arm around her shoulders, and tugs until she complies with the unspoken command and draws closer. This time, he doesn’t allow for polite distance, but brings her tight to his chest, the one arm still around her shoulders and the other burying a hand in her hair. She sighs softly, almost a relieved sound, and buries her face against his throat. He waits until she relaxes, until she’s settled against him, and then discretely drops the hand in her hair so he can feel the blood moving in her veins. Slow and steady, calm and collected.

Eventually, she falls asleep, still resting in the same place, and he stays there for a while longer, running fingers methodically through her hair. The doll is resting a short distance away, blue eyes looking at him even if they see nothing. He’s never been a complete fan of dolls—some of them can be rather unsettling in their design, and the rest are too childlike—but this one speaks to him. It carries memories for her. It is proof that there was someone in this world who loved her. But now, only the doll is left, and that person—or rather, persons, are dead and gone. There is no one left to love her, and so she sought out the return of a doll. An inanimate object is the only thing left to love her.

He brings her closer, tucking her delicate form between his limbs and cupping her head a little firmer in his palm. A few more months, and regardless of who she is or isn’t placed with in the meantime, she’ll soon be his. All his. Away from group homes and watchful eyes and interfering guardians. They’ll finally, truly, completely be alone. Just the two of them. Together.


End file.
